


fight (flight)

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Ava Flint-Wood, Dad!Marcus, Established Relationship, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Wartime AU, ft their daughter who's like 4 here, i love my boys but my brain likes thinking up scenarios where they suffer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:45:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: Marcus' priorities are solidified in their ranking: Oliver, their daughter, then staying alive. When things aren'tbad, he thinks he made the right choice.Most of the time, he has his doubts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wartime angst is the best angst.
> 
> I played with the time-frame a little for the sake of including a kid - this would be set in an AU where the war happens later down the line, for the sake of making Oliver and Marcus around 25/26 in age.

The wards haven’t been altered to keep him out. Marcus’ chest aches.

The door creaks when he unlocks and opens it, and he wonders whether the new addition of sound is intentional. The lamps in the living room are still on, casting the pictures on the wall in mellow light. Marcus watches Oliver’s face in one of them, wishes the image would show him something other than the downturn of Wood’s mouth.

There’s the sound of footsteps behind him.

“You have no right to be here,” Oliver’s voice is quiet and cold, and Marcus turns to see him, wand held tightly in his fist, in the doorway to the kitchen. Their kitchen. Oliver’s frown lines are more pronounced than Marcus remembers.

“She’s my daughter,” Marcus says, because there’s no point in arguing for anything else, “At least let me see her.”

Oliver glances at the door, brown eyes quick and flashing. “If you put her in danger—”

“She’s my _daughter_ , Wood” Marcus snaps, “I didn’t spend three weeks ridding myself of suspicion to bring her harm,” Marcus almost snarls in his frustration, but Oliver looks grim and anxious in a way that makes him doubt this decision.

“Give me an hour. That’s all I want.”

Wood’s gaze turns hard. “Thirty minutes. And put her to bed,” he says, before turning his back on Marcus and heading back into the kitchen. Marcus stares at Oliver’s retreating figure, and wonders if he’d made the right decision, during this War.

Ava is amongst a pile of books near the shelf when Marcus enters her bedroom, and she flings the one she has in her hands to the rug when she spots him.

“Papa!” She shrieks, running over and hugging his leg tightly, “Papa, Papa, you’re back, you’re back!” There’s a gap in her smile when Marcus looks down at her, her front right tooth missing.

He envelopes her in a tight hug, feels the hotness prickling behind his eyes as she laughs excitedly. Ava’s hair is in neat little pigtail braids – Oliver’s handiwork.

She pats his shoulder. “Did you get me presents?”

“No, pipsqueak,” Marcus clears his throat, wondering just what Oliver told her, “I – didn’t have time.”

“Oh,” Ava says, blinking confusedly. “But you were at a way-game.”

An away game. He always gets her gifts when he’s on an away game. He wishes that that’s what all this is about, but Merlin, how has Oliver kept this up for the past – five months, has it been? Marcus can’t get the days and weeks straight anymore, just knows that he’s been lying for what feels like an eternity.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says, and he almost chokes on how much he is. “I couldn’t get you anything.”

Ava seems to ponder this for a moment, but throws her small arms around Marcus’ neck again. “It’s okay, Papa. You’re back.” Her voice is happy and content, muffled against him, and the regret rears its ugly head in the pit of his stomach again. He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have come.

He leads her to her bed, and tucks the covers up under her chin before managing to find the words. “Only for a bit. I have to leave again soon.”

His daughter’s eyes don’t grow watery like he expects. She just stares at him with something akin to resoluteness, before looking down at her bedspread. “Okay. Is it another way-game?”

“Yeah,” Marcus lies, brushing some of her hair out of her face, “Yeah, I have to go again.”

“When?” Ava asks.

“Soon,” is all Marcus manages, because he doesn’t want to leave, but he knows he has to. It’s for her and Oliver, all of this. He can’t stay any longer than he can allow himself to. “But I can read you a bedtime story and tuck you in.”

Her gap toothed grin lights up her face again. “The princess one, the princess one. Can you read me that one?”

Marcus tugs the familiar book from the scattered piles, the cover already dog-eared from how many times Ava’s wanted to hear it. Something thumps in the house, and all his muscles go tense, ready to flee, before he hears the sound of Oliver cursing the fridge.

It feels like a memory, as if emerging from a haze of thick fog.

He takes a deep breath before flipping open the first page, Ava half in his lap, to look at the pictures. Marcus remembers the words by heart, but he reads just to distract himself from how familiar everything is. How much it hurts to see Ava’s bedroom, pink clouds drifting across the ceiling, warmly lit by the two matching lampshades by her bed. The small kiddie broom leaning by the dresser. Everything is innocent and untouched, still as it used to be. Marcus feels like he’s tainting it.

What’s missing stings more. Normally, bedtime stories are a two-dad affair. Marcus wonders if Ava notices her Dad isn’t next to her, reading along. He wonders what she thinks of him.

He wonders what _Oliver_ thinks of him.

Marcus reads extra slowly on purpose, for more than half an hour, but Oliver doesn’t come in to kick him out. He reads about the knight and the princess, traveling down a long winding road to fulfill some mission. About meeting dragons that are actually friends, escapades to get across bubbling lagoons, daring swordfights where the princess saves the day, and Ava laughs and oohs at all the right times, just like she always has.

Until Marcus gets to the part where the knight sheds a tear, and has to say goodbye to the princess at the end of their adventure, and Ava usually claps and chimes in with the concluding “Until the next one!”, except tonight she’s quiet and staring thoughtfully at the knight.

“He’s crying.”

“Because he has to say goodbye,” Marcus says, about to try and explain how unhappy he is to leave Ava until –

“Like Daddy.”

Marcus stills. “What was that, pipsqueak?”

Ava looks up at him, little face open and honest. “Daddy cries when you’re not here.” She says it so matter-of-factly; Marcus can’t breathe.

Marcus feels his stomach twist, feels the room spin, feels like he’s about to throw up because – Merlin, _please_ – “Does he – does he cry a lot?”

“I don’t know,” Ava replies quietly, tugging at the picture book and tracing her fingers over the still-crying knight, “Sometimes, I guess. Papa, why is Daddy sad?”

 _Because I’m a fucking coward who couldn’t even tell him I was leaving. Who couldn’t face him to tell him the truth_ , Marcus thinks, biting his lip so hard he’s sure he’s drawing blood.

“Because things are rough right now,” Marcus tries, placing the book carefully on the bed stand and watching his hand shake, minutely. “Things are rough in the world. But it’s okay, pipsqueak, because you’re safe.”

“You’ll keep us safe, right?” Ava says, voice drifting off and indicating she’ll be asleep in a couple of minutes. “Papa?”

Marcus wants to crumble into the ground, to beg and grovel at whatever fucking higher being he’s never believed in to make sure that what he says isn’t a lie, to make sure that what he’s doing, what he’s _done_ , is actually keeping Ava out of everything, is keeping his family out of harm’s way. That making Oliver cry, _leavin_ g him, becoming one of them, will mean something, in the long run.

He shouldn’t have come, but it’s too late for regrets now.

Marcus presses a kiss to Ava’s forehead, pulls the covers up tighter around her. “’Course I will.”

His daughter (his precious, loving daughter) smiles at that, and whispers an “Okay, Papa,” before her breathing evens out into that of sleep, and Marcus wants to break underneath the weight of how good she thinks he is.

His forearm throbs with a phantom fear when he closes the door to her room with a quiet click, but he’s developed a sixth sense for when _they’re_ near, and that’s not the feeling right now. He’s still got some time left before he has to go.

Oliver.

He needs to talk to Oliver, even if it gets him hexed out the door. Even if Oliver hates him, like Oliver should – Marcus can’t forgive himself for a lot of things already, but he thinks leaving again without telling Oliver would be the thing that plagues him to the grave.

When Marcus find the nerve to step into the kitchen, he’s met with the sight of Oliver, sitting stiff at the dinner table with a glass in his hand. Wood takes a long drink – Marcus reevaluates and realizes that the amber liquid isn’t tea.

“So, Death Eater,” Oliver’s voice is humorless and raw as if he’s been crying and when Oliver shifts just slightly, Marcus realizes he has, wet tracks still present on his stony face. Guilt climbs its way up his throat, at how bitter Oliver looks. “What do you want?”

“Oliver –”

“Don’t,” Oliver hisses. It’s nasty, and it stings in Marcus’ chest, except Oliver sounds like he’s been fucking punched and Marcus – Marcus knows he’s hurt Oliver worse than any way Oliver is trying to hurt him. “You don’t get to call me by name.”

Oliver takes another long drink, wiping his mouth viciously with the back of his hand. He refills the glass with a sharp jab of his wand, and tosses it back with too much practiced ease. Marcus has the urge to knock the glass out of Oliver’s hand.

“You saw Ava. So now you can go,” Oliver says, breaking the silence that’s stretched between them. “Go back to your true colors, Flint.”

That hits him like a Bludger to the ribs, and it’s like he can feel the splintering of bone. “You don’t mean that,” Marcus says, voice hoarse, but he can’t be sure.

“Show me your arm and prove that I’m wrong, then.” Oliver laughs, a little hysterical.

Marcus doesn’t move, because he knows what’s burnt into his skin. Oliver picks up his wand, and for a split second, Marcus thinks that he’s actually going to be cursed and thrown out, except all Oliver does is refill his glass.

Fuck, Marcus can’t watch this.

“So the reports are right,” Oliver says, eyes glassy and staring more into the shadow of the room than at Marcus. “You know, I thought – I _hoped_ you’d just gone on the run. Because of the threats and all the pressure. And when I heard you were a suspected – suspected, I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to argue for you.” Oliver stops, stares at his hands. “I thought I knew you, that you – you wouldn’t ever.”

Marcus waits, but Oliver just stays, frozen in his seat. He glances at the clock – he doesn’t have this time to spare, but he can’t leave – he can’t do this to Oliver. Marcus has explanations on the tip of his tongue, confessions all caught on his throat, so many apologies he’s choking on them.

He’s ready to fall to his knees and beg for any spare bit of forgiveness but all he manages to do is say, “You didn’t change the wards.”

Oliver looks up, and Marcus thinks it a minute, tiny victory to get a reaction. “What?”

“You didn’t – you could’ve stopped me from coming in. The door, it creaks now. You knew I was coming. And you – you let me.”

“I had my wand ready,” Oliver says, words stilted and heavy like it always is when he’s lying.

“You could’ve thrown me out, stunned me the moment I walked in. But you didn’t,” Marcus’ voice is too loud for the room, but the man he’s still desperately in love with is a meter in front of him and all he wants to do is reach out and touch, and pour out his apologies and truth through messy kisses and fumbling hands, but he’s not allowed to and words are all he has.

“Why didn’t you?” His voice cracks, because Oliver – Oliver should hate him, shouldn’t trust him, not after what he’s done, but he’d let Marcus just come in and see Ava without so much as a fight, hadn’t kicked him out after the hour Marcus had asked for. It’s almost absurd, but he’s clawing at that tiniest sliver of hope, that what he’s done to try and protect and keep safe hasn’t completely destroyed everything he holds dear. That Oliver might still love him even the slightest bit.

Oliver’s voice wavers. “Marcus, don’t.”

“You told Ava I was at an _away game_ ,” Marcus continues, words falling out in a rush, “Oliver, please, I’m here, I’m here, I’m still _yours_ , I’ll always _be_ yours, Merlin, I gave myself over to them because it was the only way to keep Ava out of this, to keep you alive, and it _has_ , and I would do anything, _anything_ to keep you—”

Oliver’s face crumples, and Marcus feels his feet carry him the last few steps, feels himself fall to his knees and reach for Oliver’s shaking form. And Oliver – Oliver lets him.

Oliver lets him.

Oliver lets Marcus press frantic kisses to his face, rub careful, gentle thumbs over wet cheekbones, lets Marcus pull him tight, tight, tight to his chest and whisper a jumble of words and promises and apologies, lets Marcus bury his face into his hair and beg for forgiveness.

Marcus doesn’t expect to be granted that – he’s hurt Oliver too deeply to be forgiven, and he’ll willingly spend ten lifetimes to get that trust back, but the fact that Oliver is letting Marcus hold him, the fact that he hasn’t moved away – that's enough. It’s enough.

“Oliver.” Marcus whispers his name like a prayer, and he’s never said one of those before, but Oliver seems like the proper way to start. “Oliver.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, the only sound of Oliver’s shaky breaths the only thing Marcus can hear.

“I know you,” Oliver whispers, small glimmer of that boy in front of the hoops with one hundred percent certainty of winning peeking through, “And even if I – I doubted and worried and fought with myself over it – I saw you, tonight, and I realized you could never be one of them.”

Marcus wonders what he’s ever done to deserve having Oliver Wood say these words to him, to hurt Oliver so much and still be given a chance. “I left. Without telling you what I was going to do. I shouldn’t have.”

“But you did,” and Oliver gives him a sad, rueful smile, touching Marcus’ left arm softly, “And you took the Mark.”

Marcus swallows thickly. “I’m sorry.” It’s an understatement, not nearly enough, but it’ll have to do.

“I know you are,” Oliver brushes a knuckle over Marcus’ brow, “But it means we’re going to have to see this out until the end.”

Marcus hasn’t imagined an end, or at least hasn’t allowed himself to. The thought of Potter, prevailing over something so large and dark and capable of drowning whole families in – it's a fantasy. A fever dream. But he looks at the furrow in Oliver’s brow, feels the steady thump of Oliver’s heartbeat against his chest, thinks of Ava sleeping peacefully in the next room, and he wants it more than anything else right now.

“I have to go,” Marcus says, swallowing bitter reality, hands still gripping Oliver’s tightly. “But I – Oliver.”

He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, but Oliver makes the decision for him, kisses him hard. Oliver tastes like Firewhiskey and salt from his tears, and Marcus wants to drown in him.

He pulls back, stares Marcus straight in the eye. “When it comes down to it, I’m going to fight. Ava will be safe, I’ll make sure of that, but that’s what I’m choosing to do.”

Marcus knows any protests on his part are pointless and hypocritical. Instead, he presses his lips to Oliver’s temple, knowing the minutes are winding down to zero on the clock of how long he can risk to stay here.

Oliver leads Marcus to the door, and it’s worse this time, leaving. But he marvels at how resigned Oliver is to everything. Of still loving him enough to trust him like this. He presses a final kiss to Oliver’s lips, and Oliver grips his collar tight, before pushing him away gently.

“I’m going to fight,” Oliver repeats, “And so will you, in your own way. And then afterwards – afterwards, Marcus...” Oliver trails off, and it’s an offer, a tentative asking for him to meet Oliver halfway.

“We’ll find each other again. I promise.” Marcus murmurs, letting his hand linger on Oliver’s cheek for just a moment longer.

Oliver’s smile is wholly sad but quietly affectionate. “I’ll hold you to that, then.”

So Marcus leaves, twisting and apparating once he’s a safe distance away from Oliver. He notices the stars are out. One of them shines particularly bright, and he hopes he’ll still be able to see it when he winds up in the Dark Lord’s ranks again.

Marcus thinks of Oliver’s red rimmed eyes, and the hope in their daughter’s voice, and the way Oliver had felt, warm and solid and familiar in his arms. He commits everything to memory, before tugging his hood up over his head and moving further into the darkness.

He made a promise. He’ll be damned if he won’t keep it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Come join me on [Tumblr](http://mxrcusflint.tumblr.com).


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